Autumn Leaves
by Kate Browne
Summary: His chosen profession exacts a high toll from Robert Hogan. Denied revenge by an old acquaintance from his WW II days, he broods on the highpoints of his personal life.
1. Default Chapter

**Autumn Leaves**

"The falling leaves drift by the window,

The autumn leaves of red and gold.

I see your lips, the summer kisses,

The sunburned hands I used to hold.

Since you went away the days grow long

And soon I'll hear old winter's song.

But I miss you most of all, my darling,

When autumn leaves start to fall."

English lyric: Johnny Mercer French lyric: Jacques Prevert Music: Joseph Kosma

**London, England: November 1956**

Miriam Broadbent Hogan writhed and moaned in her sleep. In a sharp turn, she unconsciously kicked her husband, jarring him awake. Robert rolled over and glared at her until he realized that something was wrong. Miri was the soundest and neatest of sleepers; she had disturbed him very little in the course of almost twelve years. He was normally the restless one, and on more than one occasion, he'd woken to find himself on the floor—thanks to a well-placed foot in the small of his back. But right now, Miri sounded as she had hours before she'd delivered Patrick, and labor was not a possibility. Sitting up, Hogan turned on the bedside lamp; the light revealed a dead-white face bathed in perspiration. Her dark eyes fluttered open, revealing the experience of excruciating pain.

Soothingly, calmly, he remarked, "I'm calling Dick Reynolds." He reached for the phone. He dialed from memory. "Hello? Margaret? This is Robert Hogan. Is Dick available?" He waited impatiently as Miri ducked under his left arm to rest her head on his shoulder. Looking down on her mostly white hair, he asked, "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere, Robin, but mostly my abdomen," she whimpered.

He was about to hang up and take Miri to Casualty, but Reynolds came on the line. "So what's the trouble, Rob?"

"It's Miriam, Dick. Terrible abdominal pain." He put a hand to her forehead. "I can't tell if she's got a fever or not, but she is perspiring profusely."

There was a moment or two of silence before a disheartened voice responded. "Well, take her to Bart's and I'll meet you there in 20 minutes." He added, "And I've nae idea what's wrong. I won't know until I examine her. So get a move on." Click.

Hours went by slowly, and the waiting was driving Hogan crazy. Truly frightened, he paced in the small waiting area. 5 steps forward, 5 steps back. Clearly, something very serious had seized Miri, but beyond that he had no idea. In restrained panic, he hadn't bothered to do more than throw on his dressing gown over his pyjamas and step into his slippers before wrapping Miri in a blanket and whisking her away to Bart's. He knew Dick would send Margaret over to look after Patrick. The cabbie hadn't batted an eyelash, not that Hogan would have noticed or cared. 5 steps forward, 5 steps back. He was wearing a groove into the floor when Reynolds finally appeared.

"Well?" The fear made him sound belligerent.

Reynolds looked haggard, and his broad Scots accent flared. "From all tha test results, there are nae many possibilities left, and none are good. My own guess—and tha's what it is, lad—is poison."

"Poison?" Hogan's voice was thin.

"Aye, and I've nae idea about even type o' poison, so I am blind to an antidote." He took Hogan aside, into an out-of-the-way alcove. He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "I've been on to our mutual friends at Intelligence to see what ideas they've got, but I am nae hopeful."

From somewhere, Hogan pulled the resources to ask calmly, too calmly in fact, "Dick, tell me the truth. Is she going to die?"

Reynolds, a tall, reddish-blond, but balding Scot, looked down at his shoes before returning his gaze to Hogan's face. "I won't lie to ye, Rob. I'd get tha priest now. I think he'll be of more value to Miriam and ye than I."

Hogan wrapped his right arm across his chest while pinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand. He swallowed hard. "Okay, Dick. I get the message." His hand dropped to his side. "Can I see her?"

"Certainly." He started to lead Hogan towards Miri's room, but stopped Sister Williams, a plump, older woman, to demand a Catholic priest be sent for.

When Hogan entered the room and looked at his wife, he felt the floor fall away from him. She had never looked tinier or frailer. In seeming slow-motion, he made the long journey to her bedside. He took her hand his, caressing it with loving intensity.

Miri's dimming eyes sought his face. As a wave of pain overwhelmed her, she clutched his hand for support, bruising him. Reynolds grabbed a chair and pushed Hogan into it. The agony subsided—for the moment—and Miri spoke softly, "Robin…"

"Shush. Save your strength."

"Robin, my love, there's no time. I know I'm dying." Another wave of pain forced her to bite her lip. When she could manage, Miri reached to her throat and removed the small, gold crucifix, held it out to him. "Give it to Patrick. Tell him that I love him." Another spasm rocked her tiny frame.

The cross fell unbidden into Hogan's hand.

When she quieted again, he reached for her hand, but she stretched out to his face, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. "I hate to leave you, Robin."

He caught her fingers, and holding them between his hands, he kissed them. Silent tears ran down his face, and he murmured, "I love you, breila," giving her his only word of Welsh. She smiled faintly before losing consciousness. The fingers in his hands went slack.

**London**** England****: December 1944**

Having gotten Miri's address from Group Captain James Roberts—at the cost of some too pointed ribbing about his reasons—Colonel Robert E. Hogan, USA, discovered trying to find her flat off Gordon Square in Bloomsbury to be more than a little difficult. And naturally, when he did find the Georgian building, her flat proved to be on the fourth floor. His legs burned by the time he knocked on the door. Adjusting the borrowed, slightly too large, tweed jacket for the umpteenth time, Hogan waited impatiently. No response. After a few moments, he rapped again. The door opened to reveal a tired woman, stocking-footed and half out of uniform, with her fine, black hair slipping out its chignon. She held a double whiskey soda in hand.

It took Miri a few seconds to recognize him. "So who's trying to make you into the English squire?"

"Robbie," he snorted. This was not the way he'd planned to start this evening. "May I come in or do I get to stand here and be giggled at all night?"

"Feeling faintly ridiculous, Robin?" she asked, smirking as he entered.

"Very funny, Miri. While I'm on leave, I'm staying with Group Captain James Roberts and his wife. Being the good British officer he is, Robbie insisted that I go out…."

"…in mufti, of course." She tittered.

Hogan rolled his eyes, vowing silently to get Robbie for this. Tweed jacket and tan Shetland wool cardigan indeed! "This is as much mufti as I care to muster." The cardigan bunched under the jacket, making him feel rumpled and uncomfortable. In irritation, he whisked off the offending article and threw it over a chair.

"All you need is the matching tweed driving cap."

"It didn't fit."

Miri sat down on the sofa, chortling helplessly. He reached down, taking the whiskey glass from her before the contents spilled on the Persian rug and setting it down on the cluttered end table. The entire modest flat seemed cluttered with porcelain bric-a-brac, books, samplers, old photographs, and even a couple of landscape paintings. The furniture ran to the velvet Victorian. For a second, Hogan wondered where Holmes and Watson were. He shook his head to dispel the image.

Miri's giggle fit ended, and she said, "I'm so sorry, Robin. That's no way to greet you." She came to him, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. He bent down to meet her, and they kissed fiercely. After a few moments, she asked tenderly, "Better?"

In answer, he picked her up, sat down on the red velvet sofa and eased her into his lap, her shoulders resting in the crook of his right arm. His left curled around her knees. "Well, my darling girl, I am a free man now. We closed up Stalag 13."

"When did you get back to civilization?"

"About a week ago."

She smacked his chest lightly. "And you didn't let me know? Beast."

"We were in the hospital and not allowed communication with the outside world until we'd been debriefed. I came to see you at first opportunity—though getting here wasn't easy." He smiled lovingly at her, hoping she'd be distracted enough not to ask about the hospital.

Miri sat up, concern written all over her own exhausted features. "My God, Robin! Are you all right?"

He put two fingers to her lips. She leaned back against his arm, but her lustrous dark eyes demanded a full accounting. "I'm not wounded, sweetheart. Mostly we needed to recover from our trip across the Channel. Not to mention the fact, the hospital is an excellent place to hold people incommunicado."

"You made a Channel crossing this time of year?" She closed her eyes and shuddered.

"Yeah. In a 30-foot fishing boat. The sea was rough; the wind howled, driving huge waves over the deck. I thought we were going to sink on several occasions We were all wet and hypothermic by the time we reached England." He shivered in remembrance. "I swear to God I'm never getting on another boat again."

"The Channel is never a sweet body of water, Robin, particularly this time of year." She laid her hand over his, pressing gently. "What's wrong, my Robin?"

He was silent a moment before answering her. "It's Carter. He got washed overboard by a wave. He'd have drown for sure if it hadn't been for Newkirk." In his mind, Hogan replayed the Englishman's jumping into the churning sea with rope and life preserver. "We got them both out of the sea as fast as possible, but Carter was unconscious—from impact or swallowing water, I still don't know."

"What's the prognosis?" she asked softly.

"Up for grabs." Seeing Carter's unconscious body just lying there in that stark hospital bed had unnerved Hogan. It had been the stillness of the chemist: Carter had never sat or slept without moving in the entire time Hogan had known the man. When he'd last seen the enlisted man, he'd seemed a corpse. "He hasn't regained consciousness, hasn't made much progress towards recovery." Hogan's voice never modulated.

"I'll have Fr. Flanagan say Mass for him. And I'll certainly remember him in my prayers and light a candle for him." She squeezed his hand again.

"Thank you." Hogan looked intently at Miri. "That boat ride was the most terrifying experience of my life. I thought for sure I was a goner, and in combination with Carter's experience, I realized there are certain things I want out of life. I'm not going to wait till after the war." Pulling her closer to him, he tenderly stroked her cheek, and asked her, very softly, "Will you marry me?"

Miri was silent as she lay in his arms. Of all the rotten timing, she thought in vexation. First, my past springs evilly back to life, and now, my future crosses paths with the present. Oh, Dewi Sant. After what seemed ages to them both, she spoke—slowly and with feeling. "I want you to believe me when I say this—I am very much in love with you and nothing would make me happier than to marry you…."

"But," he interjected ominously.

She took a deep breath before answering, and her vision blurred with barely repressed tears. "You need to know the truth about my marriage. I'm reliving the past because of the present—my latest appalling mission." She stopped and then the British stiff upper lip quite literally broke as her lower lip trembled and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Hogan gently brushed hair out of her face. "If it's too painful, Miri…."

"I must," her tremulous voice cut him off. "I married Sir Thomas Broadbent in July 1932. I was just shy of 19, and he was 27. He was a fine catch, and I was so in love, so excited at being a wife. It was all an act on his part. Married for my money and as a cover for his affairs--both male and female--he buried me in Shropshire most of the time, trotting me out only when he needed to. I eventually learned to fill my empty hours—why do you think I know the things I do?" She didn't want or expect an answer. "When he did come down to the country or had me with him in town, he insisted on his marital rights. After a point, he stopped even that. It became clear that I couldn't give him an heir. After his bastard was born, I couldn't take it anymore, and I left him. That was 1938. I joined the army the next year, right before the war broke out--though you could see it coming if you had eyes to see--and it was the Battle of Britain that saw the end of Tom. The best day's work the Germans ever did."

Anger, fear, and rejection collided in Miri, caused her to start sobbing. Hogan held her tightly, pushed her face into his woolly chest. "Miri, Miri," he repeated, stroking her silky hair, pulling the pins out of the chignon. In the emotional furor, it had mostly come apart. The weeping subsided, and he turned her face up to his. "I am not Tom Broadbent, and I won't do to you what he did. I love you too much for that."

"I do know that, Robin, and I trust you like no other, but…," she stopped, braced herself. "I suppose it's human nature to want what you can't have, but my Robin, marry me, and you will be childless. I cannot give you children." The anguish, the sense of failure resonated painfully in her ears.

"Miriam, don't cry about it. Given what you've just told me, I'm not sure about that." He plunged onward. "If we have children, great. If we don't, that's fine, too. You, Miriam Siwân," he butchered the pronunciation, causing her to wince, "Broadbent, are my sole concern. It's you I want. If we decide we can't live without kids, then we'll adopt. God knows there're enough war orphans to go around. And it's not as if the family name depends on me; I've already got 10 nieces and nephews."

"You make it sound so simple, Robin."

"That's because it is, Miri." He pulled out his handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Now, tell me you'll marry me." His words were mock-stern.

"The story's not done yet." She took the plain linen square from him and blew her nose before she gracelessly left his secure embrace. She walked over to the window and pulled back the velvet drapes to look out on Bloomsbury. "I'm doing the same thing I did when I was in the Gestapo—counter-intelligence. Only this time, it's my own I'm after. And this case…." She turned back to look at Hogan, "Don't I sound like Inspector Lestrade?" She sniffed again. "And this case involves Sir Hamish MacPherson, a Scottish manufacturer and former Tory MP. I met him through Tom, and while I disagreed with him about politics, Hamish knew about my marital problems. He helped me to leave Tom in '38. Hamish is a friend; pardon me, was a friend, and now, that he's turned traitor, I must needs be the one to run him to ground."

She faced the night again, adding in a small voice of remembered affection, "He used to call me Tinkerbell."

Coming up behind her, Hogan encircled her waist and laid his cheek against the side of her head, but said nothing.

She spoke again, with increasing dispassion. The professional spy tried to replace the betrayed wife and friend. "Hamish was a real appeaser. He saw and still sees the Communists as the real threat to Europe and the world, and to eradicate that threat, Hamish has been actively negotiating with certain Nazi elements to overthrow the current British government in order to achieve a separate peace with Germany. The goal was peace in the west and war in the east—with Allied support."

Hogan raised his head and whistled.

"It's so stupidly over the top you'd think you were in the last war. And in essence, Hamish has behaved _exactly_ if this _were_ the Great War." She paused, allowing the unflappable intelligence officer to take over. "We've got the evidence, right down to the last details. We've located everybody; we're just waiting to nab them all in one spot. Hamish must be 'round the twist because they are all going to be at his London home for his annual Christmas party. I've even got my invitation."

Hogan's ears pricked up. "Do you think this could be trap, Miri?"

She slid past him and headed straight for her drinks cabinet where she poured herself another whiskey. "Care for a drink, Robin?"

"No, thanks. You haven't answered my question."

"Which one?"

"Knock off the evasive maneuvers, will you?"

Miri ignored him as she sprayed soda into her whiskey. "I do think Hamish has something planned for me. What he doesn't know is his little party is going to be gatecrashed by one of General Franco's agents. I haven't figured out this little complication myself yet." She returned to the sofa, sat down, leaned against the curved back. "I have a feeling there are going to be surprises all around, particularly for Hamish who is going to find his entire house surrounded and infiltrated by police and Security Service." She took a deep swallow. "And if all else fails—and I pray it won't come to this—I have orders to kill him." Pausing slightly, she added caustically, "And that's all, folks."

He sat down beside her. With fingers steepled before his lips, he mumbled, "I don't know what to say, Miri."

She didn't say anything; she reached out and took his hand in hers. They sat in silence for several minutes. Giving his hand a squeeze, Miri broke the stillness. "As to your other question, my Robin, yes, I will marry you—if you still want me."

He pulled her towards him. She came with alacrity, and they kissed, their lips parting hungrily. He drew back slightly and fished through his pockets a moment before coming up with the ring. It was a 1/2 carat, square cut ruby in yellow gold. He slipped it on her left hand, American-style. She admired it quickly before turning back to its giver. "Are you sure about this, Robin?"

He answered firmly, "Yes, Miri, I am very sure." He kissed her again.

Cradling her lightly, he lay back and stretched out the length of the sofa. Miri made herself more comfortable by casting her legs across his knees. Warm and safe, she fought to stay awake. Gentle, even breathing indicated that her fiancé had lost that battle. Nimbly, Miri got up and retrieved a pillow for his head and a heavy quilt. Repositioning herself, she drew the coverlet over both of them. She drifted off to sleep as his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek.

Despite the fact he'd woken up at 7am, Hogan still felt muzzy when he arrived at the hospital at 10am to check up on Carter. He and his men had worked out an unofficial, unspoken visiting schedule, but it didn't seem to be doing much good. As he pulled a chair up to Carter's bedside, Hogan wondered if part of Carter's problem weren't the same, sudden release from the daily pressure they'd all been under for two and half years. The decompression certainly was having a physical effect on him: sleeping in a real bed (or sofa) with pillows and down duvet wasn't a problem. Getting out of bed was. He smiled to himself, recalling this morning's unwillingness to rise and shine. Muttering something about waking the dead, Miri had had to almost physically shove him onto the floor. And of course, Robbie'd been teasing him, calling him Sleeping Beauty. Did that make Miri Princess Charming?

Movement in the bed caught his eye, and Hogan sobered immediately, even as hope surged forward. Please, Carter, wake up. Let me know you're going to be all right. The stirring beneath the sheets ceased, and the colonel's heart sank. Settling back in the chair, he brought out the book he'd been reading, The Count of Monte Cristo. It kept him awake, even as it gave Carter the sound of his voice. Who knew? Maybe the intricate plot would perk the sergeant up. "Okay, Andrew, where did I leave off?"

He'd gotten about three pages further into the story when Dr. Dick Reynolds showed up on the ward. Hogan wasn't too sure about the crotchety Scot, but the man seemed competent enough. Reynolds started to examine Carter, and Hogan said, "I don't know if this means anything, but Carter stirred a bit a few minutes ago."

Reynolds turned pale blue eyes on the American officer. "Good. He may be tryin' to reach consciousness." There was just a touch of broad Scots accent this morning. "And how are ye this mornin', Colonel Hogan?"

"Just a bit tired."

"Ye look somemat done in. Yer not taxin' yerself too much, are ye?"

There was an unspoken threat behind the question. Hogan got the message: rest or you'll be back in here pronto.

"Thanks, Doc," he remarked acidly.

"Ach, ye doan like subtle warnings. Then let me make it plain: yer on medical leave, colonel, because ye and yer men need the rest. Ye've gone all out for the duration, and while ye've done splendidly, it took a tremendous toll on ye mentally and physically. I've checked up on ye: ye push yerself too hard, tryin' to bounce back on no more than 4 hours sleep a night. Well, that wears a body out. Are ye daft, mon? Right now, ye need to BE Sleeping Beauty. Let yer mind and body recover from the strain ye've placed on them."

Wonderful, Hogan thought, even as he squirmed uncomfortably under the doctor's gaze. In an attempt to divert the doctor, he asked, "Could this be what's affecting Carter?"

"I've thought o' that and made allowance for it, too." Reynolds was not to be distracted. "Now, did ye understand me?"

Anything to get the man off his back. The colonel meekly surrendered. "Yes, sir. I promise to rest." He gave the medical officer his most winning smile. "But you will have to cut me some slack, Doc. I got engaged last night."

"Congratulations. And who's the lucky lady?"

"I doubt you'll know her, but her name's Miriam Broadbent."

Reynolds jerked his head heavenwards. "Bloody hell! That daft woman! She's no fit example for ye! She'd work herself into the grave if I let her."

Hogan groaned at the doctor's outburst. Lucky me! Does the whole British army know Miri or is Reynolds privileged? the colonel sourly asked himself.

Before he could respond, Carter started moaning. Both officers sprang forward. "Andrew, can you hear me?" inquired his CO urgently. The enlisted man's head lolled a on the pillow. Finally, the blue-green eyes fluttered open and struggled to focus on his CO's face. "Andrew," Hogan repeated.

"That you, Colonel?" The voice was very weak.

"Yeah, Andrew, it's me." He had the chemist's hand gripped tightly in his own.

"Where am I?"

"Yer in hospital, lad. I'm yer doctor." Carter's eyes swung over to the Scot.

"What happened?" The voice had grown stronger, but was still reedy.

"Ye took a swim in Channel, lad, which, as yer doctor, I'd've advised against."

The enlisted man turned back to his CO, and murmured, attempting to deadpan, "Now, he tells me, Colonel."

Hogan sat down with both relief and laughter. "We needed to get out of Stalag 13. You've been hanging around Newkirk too long." He felt rewarded by Carter's half-smile.

"All right, now, Colonel, I'd be obliged if ye'd leave me to examine the lad." Hogan started to go, but Reynolds added, "And give my regards to yer fiancée."

Carter stared at his CO. "You getting married, Colonel? Major Broadbent?"

Hogan turned around. "Yes, Andrew. On Christmas Eve, and I'll be personally insulted if you're not there. But," he pointed his finger at the bomb expert, "I don't want any exploding candles on the cake."

"Yes, sir." Carter grinned.

"Go on now, Colonel, get a cuppa. I'll let ye know what my prognosis is later on." The medical officer spoke over his shoulder, and Hogan recognized a dismissal when he heard it. He also realized what a canny Scot Reynolds was. His respect for the physician had increased greatly.

By the time Reynolds came down an hour later, the rest of his men had joined Hogan in the hospital canteen. The message was short and sweet: Carter would recover with apparently no lasting effects. That lifted a mountain of anxiety from their shoulders. Much to Reynolds' shock, they practically did a victory dance in their exuberant relief—much hugging and backslapping. In fact, in his enthusiasm, Kinchloe slapped Hogan so hard on the back that the colonel thought his teeth were going to come out. But he didn't mind. He felt exactly the same way. The doctor left, shaking his head.

Hogan motioned them to quieten down. They looked at him expectantly, and suddenly Hogan found this announcement harder than any he'd ever made before. He wasn't sure why. "Gentlemen, what are you doing on Christmas Eve?" Murmurs of half-formed plans, mostly involving church, reached his ears. "Well, keep the evening open for a wedding. Mine. I wish very much for you all to be there."

"Gor'blimey! Colonel, that's wonderful! You and the missus finally goin' to make it official, are ye?"

"Miriam is not my wife yet, Newkirk."

"There, Colonel, you're wrong." Hogan looked askance at Kinchloe. "Sir, real marriages are made in the heart, and the minister is just there to publicly recognize that and make it legal. It's pretty obvious that you and the major have been married in your hearts since July."

Hogan felt his cheeks flame. Before he could respond, LeBeau cut in. "C'est vrai, mon colonel. As private an individual as you are—and we respect that," the others nodded vigorously, "both you and Madame could not help showing your emotions."

The colonel harrumphed. "Sorry to be so transparent."

"Don't be embarrassed, Colonel. It was really nice to watch." Kinchloe smiled broadly. "It was one more victory, but over the war itself."

"That brings me to a favor I need to ask of you all." Hogan was grateful for the diversion that Kinch had provided him.

"Anything, guv'nor."

"Lafayette, we are here."

The colonel was all business. "Major Broadbent is engaged in a cleanup operation here in England; she has it all under control, except for the unexpected arrival of a Spanish agent. Our mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep this agent under wraps and out of the major's hair. I don't think he's here for fun and games." Hogan had a really bad feeling about the Spaniard, and Miri's uncertainty only added to his discomfort.

"No sweat, colonel," remarked Kinchloe.

He gave his men a warning look. "Let's not get cocky, here. There is something very rotten in the kingdom of Great Britain." As they sobered, Hogan preceded to lay out his plan in detail.

Standing in the Edwardian foyer of MacPherson's house, Hogan tried to massage some space between his neck and the butterfly collar of his formal evening attire. Miri swatted him with a gloved hand. "Leave off. You look fine," she scolded as they waited to be announced. His glare softened as he took in the sight of her, clothed in burgundy velvet and silk chiffon, pearls at ears and throat and in her hair. She was bewitching.

"Miriam, Lady Broadbent," boomed a baritone voice, "and Colonel Robert Hogan."

As he followed her up the sweeping, curved staircase—he had to be careful not to step on her trailing velvet overskirt–Hogan scanned the throng of people above. He spotted Newkirk and LeBeau among the waiters. A quick moving, wiry man of medium height darted into the colonel's field of vision; this person, in formal Scottish attire, including kilt and feathered sporran, grabbed Miri's hands, pulling her toward him. He kissed her cheek, gushing, "Hullo, Tinkerbell."

"Haggis," Miri responded less effusively.

Hogan closed his eyes in disbelief. There was no accounting for the British and their bizarre nicknames for each other. At least, Robin was passable, not that he'd tolerate it from anybody but Miri. As he accidentally brushed against her, he murmured, "My apologies, Miriam." He sounded like a friend and fellow officer, but nothing more. No need to make MacPherson suspect any closer alliance.

Miri responded likewise. "Not at all, Robert. May I present you to our host? Haggis, Colonel Robert Hogan, United States Army Air Corps. Robert, Sir Hamish MacPherson, an old and dear friend." Mutual nods of acknowledgment and muttered sirs.

"If you'll excuse me, Miriam, Sir Hamish?"

With visible relief, the Scot replied, "Certainly, Colonel. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." MacPherson turned back to Miri almost too rapidly for politeness.

Hogan sailed into the sea of people and was almost immediately accosted by Peter Newkirk, who whispered urgently, "The Spaniard you warned us about is 'ere, skulkin' about. Louis's got 'im under 'is eye. But, colonel…."

The warning note in Newkirk's voice made the colonel heighten his state of alert. "Yes?"

"Kinch wants ye to know that 'e's bugged the bleedin' traitor's study, but said that it looked as if it'd been wiped clean before 'and. 'E's goin' to record ever'thin' that goes on in there." He paused as two guests came up for champagne. "Colonel, I 'eard two blokes from Security Service talkin'. They'd found one o' their own in bushes. Shot dead. Blimey, this 'ere's dicier than I thought it'd be."

Hogan put a hand on Newkirk's arm to calm the nervousness. It worked. "So Kinch's has got it all under control?" The Cockney nodded. "Good." The colonel gave a barely audible sigh. God knew he hated stand up and smile affairs, but working one was even worse than just being there. "Time for me to go mingle. Let me know when MacPherson heads for his study."

"Righto, guv'nor." Newkirk disappeared into the crowd, but not before Hogan helped himself to a glass of champagne.

Before he'd taken more than two sips, he eyed Brigadier General Aloysius Barton over the rim. Controlling his rising dread—of all the people to be at this bash!—he greeted the general cordially. "General Barton, how nice to see you. What brings you to this august gathering?" The colonel thought his face was going to freeze in its forced, pleasant smile. At least, the shorter man looked worse in his dress blues than Hogan felt in white tie and tails.

The grey-haired general responded grumpily, "I'm not precisely sure, Colonel." He launched abruptly into other matters. "I owe you a tremendous apology, Hogan. I called you a traitor and a disgrace to the uniform. Both comments were way out of line." Hogan could barely believe his ears: real brass was hardly in the habit of saying sorry. The general continued. "I do hope you will forgive me."

Even though Barton's comments at Stalag 13 had stung even after the acknowledging salute, there was nothing to be gained by being ungracious. "Certainly, sir. It was after all a secret operation."

"Yes, one I made it my business to find out about after I returned to England. You're a remarkable officer and man, Hogan. I'm glad you made your own safe escape."

"Thank you, sir, but I have an excellent crew. And we didn't have much choice about getting out. Casa Klink changed management, and not for the better."

"You realize that you can expect promotion for your efforts?" Hogan's blank face spurred Barton to an explanation. "Colonel, you put in 2 1/2 years of dangerous, behind the lines work, with not a loss in your own personnel and a success rate over and above anybody's expectation. Your star is virtually guaranteed."

Hogan felt as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him, though in his mind, he knew the general was right. Not that he wanted to be a general. More painfully, Barton's words brought home to him that this command was over, something else he didn't really want to acknowledge.

"There are commands, Hogan, that you will never forget because they're truly special. Treasure those memories. They make up for all the rotten commands one gets." Hogan caught LeBeau gesticulating wildly to him. He rolled his eyes. Barton didn't miss a thing. "You're working this party, aren't you, colonel?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're supposed to be on medical leave."

Hogan grimaced. "Whatever you do, sir, don't tell Dr. Reynolds, or I'll find myself in the bed next to Sgt. Carter. And I can't afford that right now." To Barton's vaguely affirmative growl, he added, "I can't exactly get married if I'm in the hospital, now can I, sir?" As soon as he said it, he wondered why. What did Barton care?

The general gave a genuine smile. It changed his whole face, making him seem much less stern, much more human. "Congratulations, colonel. Now let me give you one piece of advice before you dash off. Take it from an old married man: the two key words to a successful marriage are 'yes, dear'."

Just make that 'yes, sir,' and you had sound advice for a successful military career. "Thank you, general, and good-night." Hogan pushed his way through the crowd to LeBeau who quickly pointed out that both MacPherson and the Spaniard had disappeared from view. Hogan told LeBeau to keep watching the party with Newkirk and to let him know if anything else popped up. He disappeared out a side door, racing for Kinch's hideout in the servants' quarters.

The radioman looked up as his CO bounded in. "Colonel, the Spaniard just entered MacPherson's study." He turned up the gain so Hogan, who leaned over his shoulder, could catch what was going on.

"Buenos noches, Don Enrique. You've come to finalize the deal?"

"Sí, señor."

"General Franco will get Gibraltar in return for immediate recognition of the new British government. And then we shall have the pleasure of finally defeating those Communist dogs."

There was a lengthy pause. "What do you mean to do with that?" There was panic in the Scotsman's voice.

A new voice answered, "Really, Haggis. He means to shoot you. And quite frankly, you'd better hope he does. I've orders to arrest you and make sure you stand trial for treason. Would you prefer to die here or stand in the dock?"

"Dammit!" the colonel muttered under his breath. "Kinch, keep recording," he tossed over his shoulder as he bolted.

"Right, Colonel." The black sergeant was utterly confused. First, what was Major Broadbent doing in the study? And two, what was the colonel thinking? Voices in the study brought Kinch's attention back to the job at hand. And his blood ran cold.

"Buenos noches, Doña Maria." The low voice was silk. "Your arrival is most timely." A pause. "Señor, as you can no doubt tell by this lady's presence, your plan has been compromised. You are completely undone, and I am here to make sure there are no roads back to Madrid." The Castillian was courtly in his manner; deadly, in his intent.

"Don Enrique is very right about that. Even as we speak, Security Service—that is to say most of your staff this evening—is taking into custody your co-conspirators. I suggest you surrender yourself to me now, Haggis."

"Doña Maria, are you deaf?"

Miri's teeth grated. Trastamara was being an ass again. He knew damned well she hated being called Lady Mary, even if it were the literal translation of her name. She said sharply, "No, Don Enrique, I am not. You have 3 hours to remove yourself from the United Kingdom. If you are still within in the realm at the end of those 3 hours, you will be subject to arrest, interrogation, and deportation. All at the pleasure of His Majesty's Government. Do you understand?"

"It is you who do not understand. You are also my target for this evening."

Kinch seemed to stop breathing. He heard nothing for a moment, then two shots, one after the other. More silence and then he could hear the study door opening.

Hogan got to the study as two shots rang out. His heart seemed to stop for a moment before he pushed his way in. The Scot slumped over the desk, eyes still open, a look of surprise frozen on the face. The Castillian lay on the floor, head pointed toward the French doors, blood spreading across his starched shirt front. The Welsh spy propped herself against the desk, small calibre pistol in her right hand. Hogan called out to her, "Miri?"

A voice choked with emotion answered, "Yes, Robin?"

Kinch started breathing again. By this time, he'd been joined by Newkirk and LeBeau, who were redundant due to the efforts of the Security Service. They all listened uneasily.

The American came up behind the tiny woman, and reaching down, he took the gun from her hand. He had to pry it out of her fingers. After he put it in his tailcoat pocket, Hogan gently turned her around. Her face was chalky, and her eyes were overbright. "Are you all right?" he asked in concern, knew full well she was anything but.

She burst into tears, exclaimed as she buried her face in her hands, "I can't do this any more." He pulled her to him and stroked her bare back as she cried convulsively.

After a few moments, he asked softly, "What happened?"

Still crying, she replied, "Haggis jumped when Trastamara threatened me. It drew his attention, and he shot Haggis. I shot Trastamara almost simultaneously." She took a deep breath and brushed away tears with the back of a hand. After a quick look back at MacPherson, she said, unevenly, "He may have been a traitor, but he was once a friend. I grieve for that. And better this than the humiliation of the dock and the rope."

As far as Hogan was concerned, MacPherson wasn't worth her tears, but he kept that thought to himself. He put an arm around her shoulders and led her from the room. She leaned against him.

"'Ellfire," breathed Newkirk. "I wouldn't be the missus for all the tea in China." The others nodded as Kinch shut down.

As they walked back to the ballroom, Hogan said, to satisfy his own curiosity, "There are something things that don't quite fit here. I ran into General Barton earlier this evening. Hiis presence struck me as being odd. Also, I assume the Spanish were part of the original plot, but got cold feet."

She looked up at him. "There were several highly placed people present who were unconnected to this intrigue. They were all here for diversionary purposes. Hence Barton's presence. That's even why I was invited. Haggis never knew I work for Intelligence. Regarding Don Enrique, clearly our security was compromised, for the Spanish knew we knew." She shivered, and Hogan pulled her closer. "He was here to cover Spanish complicity; in that, he singularly failed."

Hogan looked down on her. She seemed very fragile. "Did you mean it? When you said you couldn't do this anymore?"

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…,'" intoned the vicar, John Hawthorne.

Standing before the altar, Hogan, in his Class As, caught sight of Robbie, also in uniform, shaking his head. He knew Robbie just could not believe they were getting married by special licence in the Church of England. Miri had, as she'd rather sheepishly explained at rehearsal, lost a bet with the Anglican vicar. She'd vowed in 1940 that she'd never marry again, and Hawthorne had bet she would. The wager was if he lost, she'd get £50. If she lost, he got to perform the ceremony by the rite of the C of E.

"…duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. First, It was ordained for the procreation of children….'"

Hogan caught the tiny expression of pain that crossed Miri's solemn face. It quickly passed as the vicar continued. "Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which estate these two persons present come now to be joined…..'"

Fortunately, nobody stood up to give just cause as to why they shouldn't be married, though there had been the threat. At the rehearsal the night before, Hogan's men had joked that they'd think of something. As an across-the-duck-pond marriage, Robbie had teased, it would have to at least go through the Foreign Office, possibly the PM. Newkirk had added, with all apparent seriousness, His Majesty's permission would be needed. Miri had given a look of irritation while Hogan had just laughed.

Hogan was brought back to reality as he calmly answered the vicar, "I will."

Hawthorne turned to Miriam, dressed in a simple Wedgwood blue wool gown—a choice that heightened the translucent quality of her skin and the lustre of her eyes in Hogan's estimation. The vicar asked solemnly, "Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him….'"

There was the sound of suppressed laughter in the background. They'd all choked with it at rehearsal, Newkirk having called out, "That's a right good one, vicar. Tryin' for the Palladium, are we?" Hogan smiled at the absurdity of it. There was no way Miri was going to obey him, not against her better judgment. And he wouldn't be fool enough to try and make her.

A bell-like voice rang from beneath an ecru lace mantilla. "I will."

After plighting their troth—the language of the church, thought Hogan in amusement, never changes, even if the centuries do—came the exchange of rings. Despite his protests that he never wore jewelry, Miri had insisted on a band for him. She said, as she placed the ring of Welsh gold on his left hand, "With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.'" And then she slipped, without missing a beat, right into Latin. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritu Sancti. Amen."

Hogan snickered, and Hawthorne turned apoplectic.

Solemnity was restored by their kneeling before the vicar who read several long prayers and blessings. Hogan was beginning to wonder if the registry office wouldn't have been faster and less onerous. Miri fidgeted slightly as Hawthorne droned through Psalm 67 and began a reading from St. Mark's Gospel "But from the beginning of Creation, God made them male and female./ For this cause a man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife….'"

Carter, finally allowed out of the hospital, whispered to his buddies, but still, Hogan overheard, "Make that family and he means us."

Newkirk and Kinchloe remained silent, but LeBeau hissed, in a low, but penetrating voice, "Tais-tois, André. We don't want to be reminded of that."

Hogan shifted uncomfortably. It'd been a long time since he'd spent so much time on his knees.

"Almighty God, who at the beginning did create our first parents, Adam and Eve, and did sanctify and join them together in marriage; Pour upon you the riches of His grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please Him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives' end. Amen.'"


	2. Leaves 2

**Caernarfon, ****Wales****: November 1956**

"Donime, Jesu Christe, Rex gloriae,/libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum/de poenis inferni, et de profundo lacu:/libera eas de ore leonis,/ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum,/sed signifer sanctus Michael/repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam/quam olim Abrahae promisisti/et semini ejus….'"

As well as the choir handled the Offertory, Hogan hardly paid attention to the Mass. His mind wandered, and his soul was numb. What am I going to do without her? The question had hardly left his mind over the past week. What's going to become of Patrick, motherless now? He could hardly focus, and he doubted he'd been much help to his almost 9 year-old son. Blessedly, Dick and Margaret had taken care of them both for a couple of days before Miri's nephews, aghast at their aunt's sudden demise, arrived to handle the funeral arrangements. Hogan knew he could never have managed.

"Vere Sanctus es, Domine, et merito te laudat omnis a te condita creatura, quia per Filium tuum, Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum, Spiritus Sancti operante virttute, vivficas et sanctificas universa, et populum tibi congregare non desinis, et a solis ortu usque ad occasum oblatio munda offeratur nomini tuo.'"

The priest tripped through the Latin of the canon of the Mass. Hogan didn't care. He'd rarely gone to Mass with Miri and Patrick, but now, he'd have to go regularly. Miri had insisted Patrick would be raised Catholic. Since she was no longer here to fulfill that obligation—pain flared through him—he'd have to do it. Duty overrides hypocrisy?

He looked down at his son standing so meekly beside him. The dark-haired boy, already tall for his age, but painfully thin, fought not to cry. For a brief second, his father smiled: he's going to have my height and like me, he won't fill out until he's in his twenties. Poor kid! In the rest, he takes after Miri. The smile disappeared. Hogan put his arm around Patrick's thin shoulders, pressed the boy into his side, and felt his son give way to tears.

**"**Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam, quia puis es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis, cum sanctis tuis in aeternam, quia puis es.'"

The tiny, closed coffin covered with a dark green pall and topped with a heavy crucifix sat on the bier in the aisle. Hogan looked at it in anguish: Why, God? Why? There was no apparent reason for her death. It seemed senseless and ridiculous to bury such a vibrant woman of 43. He turned away, caught sight of Miri's family. Her sister, Angharad, ten years older, could barely stand next to Patrick. Owain literally had to support his mother. His face was impassive. Not so his brother, Dai, who looked poleaxed.

But dead she was, and by poison, too. That meant murder. Wrath stirred in Hogan, clearing his mental processes. Who killed her and why? Being CIA station chief in London gave him certain perquisites, certain advantages. Whoever had killed Miriam would rue the day.

"Ite, missa est,'" the priest intoned.

"Deo gratias,'" they responded. Hogan snorted.

A week after burying his wife, Hogan walked into MI6 HQ in London, heading straight for the office of his opposite number, Sir James Roberts. Robbie's secretary looked up at him and silently motioned him to enter. His old friend regarded him with tired eyes under greying hair; he had a large patch of white over his right eye. "What can I do for you, old son?"

"I want to read the autopsy report. I know Dick sent it to Intelligence."

"It went to Security Service."

"Can it, Robbie. You got it away from Snuffy. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to actually read it."

Robbie stood up and came around his desk to lean on its edge. "Why, Robert? What do you hope to accomplish, except to make yourself ill with grief and guilt?

Hogan looked his friend right in the eye. "Simple. Not knowing is worse than actually knowing. My imagination has run pretty rampant in the last two weeks." His mind had been playing all sorts of ugly scenarios for him.

"Robert, it makes for some very unpleasant reading. The Soviets have really taken the gloves off."

Shaking his head in disbelief, the American sat down. "Robbie, where have you been? The gloves came off back in '48 with the Airlift—something we both flew, I might add. Maybe you're not seeing it because you're still messing around with empire, but Korea showed us what it was all about. What about the repression in Hungary? Amateur hour has been over for quite awhile now."

Robbie pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to formulate an answer to Hogan's as usual, well-taken points. After a few moments, he riposted, "Your own administration has a lot to answer for with regard to Hungary."

Hogan sighed. "Yeah, I know. But the Republicans, including the President, aren't all that interested in Europe. They're only interested in balancing off the Soviet Union. And your little escapade in Egypt was idiocy. Hungary might have been easier to deal with if we'd not been so embarrassed by your unilateral moves. What the hell was Eden thinking?"

"He saw Nasser as Hitler." Robbie's voice was quiet. Prime Minister Eden had unquestionably overreacted, costing him his health and the premiership. Hogan didn't respond; instead, he stared determinedly at his opposite number. Finally, Robbie reached across his desk to retrieve a folder. He handed it to Hogan. "Here it is."

The widower read the autopsy report, trying, but failing, to control his horror. Dick had said poison; what he hadn't said was what it did. The report concluded that Miri had gotten the poison into her system approximately 3 days before it had killed her. She probably had unknowingly ingested it, making it most likely colorless, odorless, and tasteless. Chemically crude, it certainly was effective--it caused slow bleeding in the alimentary tract. Cause of death: massive internal hemorrhage. He closed the folder.

"My God, what a miserable way to die. She must have been in considerable pain before she ever let me know," he whispered.

Robbie watched him with a guarded expression. "Here's the real question, old man: why kill Miriam? What was to be gained?" The olive-skinned Englishman was silent a moment. "Now, Robert, honestly, does knowing help?"

Twisting his wedding ring around his finger, Hogan heaved a deep sigh and answered more than Robbie had asked. "I feel like hell. Some days I don't even feel a thing. And every day, in a myriad of ways, I am reminded that she's not here anymore." He suddenly resented this. "How do you expect me to feel?" There was a tense pause as Hogan jumped up to pace around the office. "And no, knowing doesn't help."

MI6's deputy chief harrumphed slightly. "Forgive the intrusion, old man, but I think I should point out that right now you are wounded to your core. Grief and guilt…." At Hogan's look of protest, Robbie added, "Yes, guilt. Because you couldn't protect her, couldn't save her." He let that sink in. "Grief and guilt do not mix well with anger in any situation, let alone one of international espionage. Take leave. Give yourself time to mourn."

Silence pervaded the office for several minutes before Hogan remarked, somewhat sourly, "You know, Robbie, if you keep this up, you'll be the vicar yet."

"Just don't do anything stupid, Robert." He watched Hogan head out the door, adding, "Sometimes the vicar has better answers, old son."

Bernard Mays struggled to control his temper. Just 30, with blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like the Iowa farm boy he was than an intelligence agent. And the nearly white-haired woman—odd, because she was barely 40—with the defiant lift to her chin was a prize of the first order: a refugee of the Hungarian Uprising. But Magda Tirza had to be the most arrogant, unco-operative crossover he'd ever had to deal with.

He finally snapped. "Look, lady, we can either get through this debriefing or I can let you go back to Hungary. Do you know what the Soviets will do to you?"

"Undoubtedly, they are already stalking me."

"They probably are, and right now, I'd let them have you. As far as I can see you're not worth anything to us." The dark eyes blinked, and the pale skin lost what little color it normally held. Bernie caught, out of the corner of his eye, someone gesturing to him through the window. He decided to let Magda stew in her own juices. "Mme. Tirza, I'm going to leave you here—alone—to think about your situation. Given your support for Nagy, do you really think the Soviets are going to be pleased to see you?"

"They'll see me dead."

"So be of some value to us." He left the Hungarian to her thoughts.

Mary Kaiser met him as soon as he left the briefing room. Before he could even say anything to the tall red-head, she cut in, "Boss is back. Wants to see his people. Now."

"Do you ever talk in complete sentences, Mary?" For the English major from Grennell, it was the most annoying thing about the chief's secretary. That she never gave him the time of day was the second.

She didn't respond to his query, but she did stop in the hallway to look him in the eye. Her green eyes were deadly serious. "Boss is in a snit. He wants to know who killed his wife and why. So he's checking on projects to see what's most threatening to our friends from Moscow." She'd started walking again in the midst of her commentary.

"Oh, brother," moaned Bernie.

"Yeah. So Boss is in no mood for tomfoolery or smart attitudes."

Just as they reached the door to the office, Bernie realized she'd spoken in complete sentences. My God! She can do it! Maybe there's hope for me yet. His insane hopes died rapidly as he took in his chief.

Already lean, Robert Hogan had dropped ten pounds in two weeks, making him truly spare. With those distinguished wings of silver sweeping back from his temples, he embodied Bernie's vision of Edmond Dantès. But the adamantine dark eyes scared the hell out of him. And the undercurrent of fear in the office suggested it wasn't just him. Mary, of course, was impervious. None of the chief's moods ever affected her.

Hogan spoke quietly, "Most of you have heard by now that my wife died suddenly and unexpectedly two weeks ago. What you probably don't know is that she was killed by a previously unknown poison. The chemical signature indicates that it's a Soviet invention." Shock went around the room. "It's a very nasty concoction that causes massive internal bleeding, and there is no known antidote. You're dead in three days." Bernie felt his stomach turn. "Now, people, I want to go through our projects. Is there something there threatening enough to make the Opposition kill for a warning?" Hogan started grilling each of his subordinates in turn.

Bernie, who'd never really seen Mrs. Hogan—he'd heard plenty about her—faded out a moment as his colleagues gave their reports. This sounded like a fishing expedition to him, and he doubted seriously Magda Tirza was worth killing Mrs. Hogan over. He certainly hadn't gotten anything out of Tirza.

Waiting his turn for the hot seat, Bernie scanned the room. An 8 x 10 color photograph in a heavy silver frame caught his attention. He stared at the photo—a beautiful woman with almost white hair and stunning black eyes over a wide, generous mouth—and he wondered why the chief had a picture of Magda Tirza on his bookshelf. The answer painfully flashed across his brain, and it almost drove him to his knees. He yelped, "Oh, my God!"

Everybody's eyes were suddenly upon him. Hogan's bore through him. "Yes, Bernie, you wish to say something?"

Bernie licked his lips quickly. A nervous habit. "Yes, sir." He pointed to the photo on the bookshelf. "That's your wife, sir?"

"Yes."

"She's a dead ringer," he flinched at his own poor choice of words, "for Magda Tirza, the crossover I've got down in the briefing room."

Silence reigned. Bernie could hear the clock ticking.

"Do you realize what you're saying?"

Bernie swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. The Soviets knocked off your wife in the mistaken belief that she was Tirza."

Marya Sergeievna Bunitskaya slammed the folder down on her desk. London traffic could be heard through the wide window. It didn't mask her genuine anger. "Borka, you idiot! You were supposed to take care of Magda Tirza quietly, efficiently, without fuss!" She spread her hands wide. "Instead I come here from Moscow to find that not only is Tirza not dead, but she's in American hands."

"Masha, darling, what are talking about? Of course, Tirza's dead." Boris Vassilievich Sukurukov had killed the Hungarian at a flower show. He'd just dropped the stuff in her tea. She drank it down without suspecting a thing.

"No, Borka, the Hungarian is still very much alive. The woman you killed was the British-born wife of Robert Hogan, the CIA's station chief here in London." She pulled two photos out to show him. The women could have been identical twins.

"So? Why is this a problem? What can he or they do about it?"

Marya flipped her russet-colored hair back from her face and surveyed Boris with narrowing eyes. He was a strapping specimen of Slavic manhood—brother, was he a giant—and her delicious large one. But he wasn't overly endowed with brains. "Borka, you fail to realize the seriousness of the situation. I know Hogan. He was always very clever and very resourceful. Put those two qualities together with a justifiable anger at the loss of his wife and what do you get?" She didn't give him time to answer. "Trouble. Hogan was—is? I don't know--passionately in love with his wife, though Lenin knows what he saw in that frosty midget. He will direct all his energy to finding her killer."

"I think you overestimate our opponent's strength. And given Tirza's legendary prickliness, do you honestly expect their usual crossover man, Bernard Mays, to break her? No, Masha, you worry too much. Especially about this relic from your past."

Marya came within an ace of throwing her paperweight at him. Coldly, she said, "Borka, if they discover your slip up, Hogan'll break that woman inside of 3 hours. Within 6 hours, Washington and London will know about everybody on that list Tirza stole before leaving Budapest. Your name is on that list."

"All right. I see your point. What do we do now?"

"We wait. We wait to see how much and what kind of damage control your mistake is going to necessitate." She rolled her eyes extravagantly. No way was she going to Siberia for this numbskull. Marya lit a cigarette and contemplated her future.

Sir James Roberts felt absolutely swamped. Reports stacked up at his left elbow that he wasn't getting through like he should. His mind kept straying to Hogan. The last thing he wanted to hear was that the American had disgraced himself with Washington, or worse, had got himself killed. His son didn't need to be an orphan--being motherless was bad enough. Of course, even if Hogan managed to get through this quest for revenge unscathed, what then? Robbie threw down his pen in disgust with himself. Worrying about Robert Hogan wasn't getting his own job done. But still, the American was an old and dear friend. They'd stood up for each other at their respective weddings, were godparents to each other's children. Resting his cheek in his hand, the Englishman muttered, "I really should shake you hard." He was still brooding when Hogan waltzed in.

"Daydreaming, Robbie? That's not like you." Hogan's smile was wide and devious.

"Actually, I was contemplating shaking you until what passes for your brain rattles in your empty skull," the Englishman snapped.

"And who starched your shorts?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I've got some really juicy stuff for you. Sort of a payback for getting the autopsy report. Snuffy will no doubt be very appreciative."

"You're supposed to go through Miss Piggy." Robbie groaned and closed his eyes in irritation. With some asperity, he said, "Now, you've got me doing it." He could not continue to refer to GCHQ's remarkably stout, ravenous liaison that way.

"Actually, it's a lot better and faster if I just give it to you." Hogan put an envelope on Robbie's file-strewn desk. "Try not to lose this. It's a list of Warsaw Pact agents operating within the United Kingdom."

"My God! How did you get this?" Robbie was increasingly flabbergasted as he ripped open the envelope and read the contents.

"Magda Tirza."

"Who?"

"The Hungarian crossover we've got stashed. She was part of Imre Nagy's government. Got clean away with this remarkable list of agents. It's not as complete as I'd like, but it'll set Soviet intelligence back 18 months at least. And it will give us some maneuvering room. The expulsions will be quite public and nicely embarrassing for Moscow."

They both knew retaliatory expulsion of agents was a low-level way of shutting down annoying operations. Diplomatic egg on the face beat bombs and bullets.

"How did you get her away from the Soviets? They must have wanted her dead very badly."

"Probably still do, Robbie. That is, if they've figured out they killed the wrong woman."

Robbie stood up to face a sobered Hogan. "What are you driving at, old man?" The American showed him a photo of Tirza. The Englishman sat down in shock. "God's blood, Robert!"

"Miri was killed by mistake. This point broke Mme. Tirza. Apparently, the Soviets tried first to kidnap her, then assassinate her right before she fled Hungary at the very end of October. Instead of her, they got her husband. She fled for London via Vienna. The Soviets were clearly on her tail. 6 days later, Miriam died. When she found out this, Tirza lost it and coughed up the list."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Well, the administration is going to expel at least 3 agents from Washington and demand the removal of about 6 more from the UN. There are a handful that have penetrated certain sensitive areas and will never be going home. I expect your government will do likewise." Hogan's black amusement ceased. "However, there's one here in London I'm going to grab this evening."

"Robert," the MI6 deputy head warned.

"8 to 5, he's the one who killed Miri. But, there are other things we want him for. Capturing him will be quite the coup." Hogan answered the question in Robbie's eyes. "Boris Vassilievich Sukurukov. Also, going after him will probably reveal who their new station chief here in London is."

Robbie flipped through his files. "I can tell you who that is. Marya Bunitskaya. She got in from Moscow yesterday." He whisked out a photo. "What's wrong, old son?"

"Oh, great, Marya." He heaved a deep sigh. "I had lots of dealings with her during the war. She always made things difficult." He thought a moment. "Sukurukov's dead."

"And how do you figure that?" Sometimes, Hogan's brain box worked either too quickly or too illogically for Roberts.

"Easy. Marya is no fool. She'll have played the game out several ways. She knows me, just as I know her. Missing Tirza and allowing the list to fall into our hands was a serious mistake. Damage control is now her only option. She also understands why I want Sukurukov, but cannot allow me to get my hands on him. That would be worth her own life. Either she spirits him out of the country or she kills him." He picked up the hat he'd tossed on the chair behind him. "Now, it's just a race."

Sukurukov knew he was being followed. It had been obvious at the beginning, but had increasingly been less so. Just when he thought he'd shaken the tail, the man would make himself known, forcing the Russian to change direction. This made Sukurukov nervous and gave him the sense that he was being herded. He hurried down the Strand, ducking down a side street. The man in a trench coat followed, picking up his own pace. Sukurukov sped past the Coach & Horses and turned into a dark alley. His pursuer continued to come on. The Russian didn't hear the tiny pop from a high pile of crates.

The tail had only been about three steps behind Sukurukov when the bigger man hit the opposite wall as if shoved. The trench-coated man put a hand to the Russian's neck, even though he knew he was dead. "Nice job, Marya. You beat me to him."

Marya stepped out from behind the crates. She was panting, as if from strenuous exertion. "Hogan dahling," she purred, overgrowling her 'r's. "You made me work for it. You sprang your little trap sooner than I anticipated. Fortunately for us, I knew Boba better than you did."

"You killed your own lover."

"Either that or go to Siberia for his mistakes. Or worse." She shrugged extravagantly. "Just a little clean up job."

"But somebody had to do it."

"Of course, darling. I couldn't very well let you have him. With your ferocious drive and your usual deviousness, you would have picked Boba clean in less than 2 weeks. And that would have been very bad for us. No, Hogan dahling, you've had enough success for one day."

"I wouldn't have had any success if your boyfriend here hadn't murdered my wife."

"Oh, that's convenient. Blame the victim."

Hogan felt ready to explode. "What do you call Miri's death? The high cost of doing business?" he shouted.

"For once, you are thinking with your heart. I knew you could do it." She felt his anger, but let it wash over her. "Would you prefer the fortunes of war?"

"Miri was a civilian in this war."

Marya took two steps closer to him. "I am sorry about your personal loss, darling, but as the Snow Queen herself could have told you, accidents happen. You regret them, but you don't apologize for them." Boy, was he thinking with his heart. She couldn't believe it. Almost like a Russian! There must have been fire under all that ice.

"I don't know why Miri didn't shoot you when she had the chance."

"Because she knew you adored me." Marya kissed him on both cheeks. "Now, go home to that charming little boy of yours." The Russian straightened her fur hat and then walked nonchalantly toward the Coach & Horses, leaving Hogan standing in the alley.

Hogan quietly entered the Georgian townhouse. At this late hour, both Patrick and Mrs. Trelawny, the new housekeeper, would be asleep. He glanced at his watch. He should be, too. But he couldn't. Sleep had become elusive, and he knew it was because he missed Miri. The bed he'd shared with her now seemed cold and alien. At the drinks cabinet, he poured himself 3 fingers of Irish whiskey and sat down on the battered red velvet sofa. Miri had despaired of ever repairing it, and at this point, he didn't really care.

He threw back a hefty swallow of the neat whiskey and felt it burn his throat. He couldn't get over the senselessness and stupidity of Miri's death. He'd hoped that finding out who and why would help. It didn't. It was just a dumb mistake, a total blindside to a woman who'd retired from the fray. She had had a whole different life. She'd really enjoyed being a wife and mother. She'd had as many outside projects and interests as imaginable—Catholic Relief Society, St. Elizabeth's Guild, the Flower and Garden Association. An active member of the Labour Party, too. Hogan drained his whiskey. To take her away from all that because of a damned error seemed more than he could endure.

Restless, he got up to wander around the silent townhouse. He opened the door to Patrick's room. His son lay spread-eagled under the duvet, his pale face mashed into the pillow. Hogan had noticed some regression in behavior. The boy had clung to him tightly over the last month. It didn't surprise him. With one parent gone suddenly, could the child help but fear the other one would also disappear? After the first horrible days had passed, Hogan had made sure to be home for dinner and to put Patrick to bed. It seemed to be helping. So did having Mrs. Trelawny around—not only was she an older woman, a grandmotherly sort, but was also a Welsh-speaker. Miri had insisted on Patrick learning her language. Hogan would see he kept it. Patrick flopped over in his sleep, scattering the bedclothes. His father covered him again before quietly withdrawing.

The house settled audibly as Hogan wandered into the study cum library. The rolltop desk stood off to one side. Miri had sat there to pay bills, to write letters. Her reading glasses still lay on the blotter. Hogan sighed deeply and turned away. When would this constant ache in his chest go away? Would it ever? Ignoring his own questions, he scanned the shelves for something to distract him until he fell asleep. He pulled out a CS Forester novel. A little, leather bound book fell out. Puzzled, Hogan opened it to discover his wife's diary. He glanced at the desk. So she'd done that, too, there. Pulling his own glasses out of his breast pocket, he sat down and began to read.


	3. Leaves 3

**American ****Sector****Germany****: Spring to Summer 1947**

_28 April 1947_

_ It has been a very long time since I've kept a diary. I couldn't or didn't dare do so for so many years. Those same years I usually had had other roles to play, roles that kept me from recording things of importance to me. In a way, I've lost a lot of my life, that's unrecoverable now. Ah, well._

_ Robin went on TDY today; it's 3 months at the War Department. The longest separation of our marriage. A few days here or there never bothered me much. After all, a little separation is good to remind us how much we want to be together. And our reunions are certainly sweet. But 3 months! Sweet Dewi Sant! Not to talk to him, touch him, listen to his troubles, laugh with him, hear his gentle breathing at night, feel his arms around me! It'll be as desolate as __Shropshire__ for me._

_3 May 1947_

_ Work is grueling right now. Ever since I got married, the service and I haven't quite got on. Being married is only part of the problem. I'm married to an American who is himself a serving intelligence officer at the strategic level. This has created all sorts of problems, and no doubt, my superiors are waiting for me to get with child and be out of their hair. While they're vainly hoping that, I've been trying to reconcile myself to the service. It's seemed alien for a while now. I've been shuffled through several different assignments, no doubt increasing my disaffection; now I've been assigned to the Allied denazification process. Anyway, I have been sequestered in the analysis of endless German records, mostly Gestapo. _

_ I've run across names and incidents I never wanted to see again. I've even met my alter ego, Elena Schmidl, on occasion. Rereading those reports—many of which I read at first instance years ago—almost makes me physically ill. Particularly the ones written by Dietrich Feldcamp and Wolfgang Hochstetter. At least Dietrich had the good sense to resort to the whiskey and the revolver. Wolfgang has yet to be found. How odd I should still refer to them by their given names._

_ Looking back on my tenure in the Gestapo, I see it as a different age, a different me, even. I wonder how I did it. Everybody was spied on; everybody was set against each other. The only place to live in freedom was inside your own head. I had to be doubly careful because this was all undercover work for me. I did it for three years. Did I not realize or ignore the danger? Did I think I would come away unscathed? I don't honestly know. I've woken up screaming now 3 nights out of 4._

_8 May 1947_

_ Oh, hell! Now I can't drink my tea. It makes me sick. Just what I don't need—to be sick again. That will be more time off from work this year. I was so ill at the beginning of the year that I actually thought I might die. Pneumonia and pleurisy. I felt so bad, breathing was so painful, that I wanted to die. And from the way Robin treated me during my convalescence—as if I might break—I know he thought I was going to die. My sweet lamb! He's so transparent when it comes to me; wears his heart right on his sleeve._

_I got the pneumonia during a quick trip to __Berlin__. Ugh. I hate that town, and if I never have to set foot there again, I'll be a happy woman. So where does this stomach upset come from? Reading the damned records? _

_From what I've been reading and from what certain colleagues have said, I think I've an idea what Wolfgang has been up to. Nothing good, I can assure you. Would that Robin were here, so I might talk about this with him. Ah, well, I should be getting a letter from him soon. And soon, also, I'll be in the garden all my spare time. My pride and joy!_

_12 May 1947_

_ Robin has been gone fully two weeks now, and I've taken to sleeping in his pyjama jacket. I do hope a letter comes soon, for I miss his presence. He should be getting mine any day now, not that there was much to tell him, besides I've exhausted my capacity for Agatha Christie, that the flowers are coming up in the garden, that I'll press the first good rose of the year for him. _

_He'd have been on my case, as he would put it, for my brooding. The nightmares haven't gone away. Some of the things I did even in the name of defeating the Paperhanger seem so questionable now. I suppose that's just conscience and hindsight. After all, how many agents get to look back on their own work? Oh, and the mistakes I made! My God, I'm surprised I didn't end up dead, particularly back in mid '42. From some of the reports I've read, they had to have known. Why didn't I get caught? _

_17 May 1947_

_ Mail call today! A heavy load. In addition to my own correspondence, I have also have to deal with Robin's while he's away. Fortunately, most of it can be handled with a quick note saying sorry, he's TDY. We did get an invitation to Sgt. Carter's wedding. Apparently, he's marrying some girl named Mady. Fortunately, it's Michaelmas. We should be able to make that. There were a couple of other things I will simply send along to Robin when I send my next letter. This includes a somewhat late arriving letter from his brother Ted. What a queer duck he is. _

_Angharad wrote, and not good news, either. Her husband, Rhys, is ill, again. He's not been in good health for several years now. The trouble this time seems to be his heart. Angharad will be devastated if he dies; theirs has been a truly companionate marriage. And Rhys, what a sweet man! He's borne all his ill-health with the patience of a saint and never turned into the crabby, whingeing invalid. I want him to get over this. Angharad didn't mention her sons. How are they?_

_I went out in the garden this evening to say my prayers. Among the plants, particularly my roses, I feel much calmer. The birds singing in the twilight add to the sense of peace. It makes it much easier to compose myself and to pray. _

_ No letter from Robin. I'll really start to fret I don't see one next week. He doesn't wait to get mine before writing me, so our letters usually cross paths in the mail. _

_25 May 1947_

_ Today's Whitsun. It's this holy day in particular that truly makes me miss Britain. We usually have Morris dancers, and I really like to watch the men in their kit, including the bells, dance on the green, knocking sticks and leaping to the music. Skipping and waving handkerchiefs. Ah, it's grand. Doesn't really feel like Whitsun without them._

_ Well, the good news for the week is that finally, I got a letter from my absent husband. Poor lamb! He sounds positively worn out already. And he's so cryptic about what he's doing that I know right off it's secret stuff. Probably has a lot to do with the worsening relations with the __Soviet Union__. What we don't need is another bloody war, but undoubtedly we'll get one. God Almighty! This one would be a lot worse than the one we just got out of, as if anybody is really ready or willing to fight another one. I suppose the ballyhoo will simply speed the partition of __Germany__; that's what it's coming to. That's certainly what Robin hints at. He also says straight up that he hates the Pentagon. He says it's impossible to find his way around in it because everything keeps bending back on itself. He ends up getting lost 3 days out of 5. There is also a rodent problem. Maybe he should get a cat? Rat terrier?_

_Unrelated to his work in __Washington__—well, it's not actually in the capital, but I've only been in the States once—is his family. His sister Maggie is getting married this summer, so he's going to take leave and go to the wedding. I adore Maggie and wish her all the best. I'll have to write and tell how much I'll miss not being there. She, of course, knows why. When Robin and I were there in the late summer of '46, I was not well received. Maggie thought her mother was being horrid to me and went out of her way to be nice. I've no problem calling her sister. I just hope her betrothed is worthy of her._

_I will never set foot again in their mother's house. My mother-in-law and I cordially loathe one another. I realize that Robin is her oldest son and nobody, not even the Blessed Virgin Mary, would be good enough for him, but that's no excuse for the way she treated me when I went to meet the family. But my being Welsh, not American, and a widow—read used goods—did not sit well with Mrs. Hogan. I'll be damned before I call her Mum. Poor Robin! He was caught between us that summer. I've vowed never to do that again, and I try to contain my feelings about his mother._

_ And now, for the bad news. I'm with child. This will make the 7th time I've gone with child, and it will undoubtedly be the 7th time I'll lose a child. I should have realized it sooner. The inability to drink tea, the soreness of my bosom, some of the dreams I've had all go with this. But now the fatigue and the feeling of sitting in a dinghy in the middle of the Channel confirm it. By my reckoning, I'm about 1 ½ months gone, and if everything goes as it has in the past, I should suffer a miscarriage some time in the next month. I can conceive, but I can never deliver. _

_29 May 1947_

_ I've sworn, to myself, that I am not going to get my hopes up about this baby. But I still think about what it would mean if I actually had a child. I've thought like this every time I've carried Robin's child. Would motherhood mean a loss of independent identity? Would I just then be an extension of Robin, and not a full person in my own right? I am Mrs. Robert Hogan, and that is certainly quite a lot, but I am also MSB Hogan, intelligence agent. If I actually got past 3 months, I'd have to tender my resignation. Realistically, there's no way I could continue, as even an analyst, and be a mum. The service wouldn't allow it, and certainly, Robin wouldn't stand for it. What about me, personally? Ah, well, this aspect is sort of irrelevant, isn't it?_

_ What's not so irrelevant is Robin's career; if he goes any higher up the chain of command, I will undoubtedly have to quit. He's brigadier now, at age 39. The pressure is already on me and him. And if I'm honest with myself, I've rather lost my enthusiasm for my work; right now, it is more police work than not. I was always a field agent, but I've not had a field assignment since 1945. But to send me back into the field would separate me from Robin which I don't want. Also, from the perspective of the service, it would be damned stupid. I'd be a jolly good target, the chink in Robin's armor. The Opposition would use me to pressure Robin; no, in that sense, I'm a security risk. That's another big reason I've been booted to denazification. Now, the Americans don't tell the British everything, and pillow talk is something to be concerned about. This makes me a security risk from the American perspective. I usually don't want to admit this, but I know that when the war crimes commission comes to an end, so does my tenure in the service._

_ But what do I do then for an independent existence, my own identity? I love Robin dearly, but I will not be totally dependent upon him. That's one consequence of my marriage to Tom Broadbent that can never be erased. I probably should read Gaudy Night again. I very much appreciated Harriet Vane then. I am the most fortunate of women in that Robin appreciates independence, but there are times when I doubt he defines it quite the way I do._

_4 June 1947_

_ Friday is the 3rd anniversary of the __Normandy__ Invasion. It was a remarkable feat, one of the most important battles of the war. It also cost me two dear cousins—Rhodri and Huw, both of whom died on Sword beach. I've taken to having Mass said for them on June 6. I also include Robin's brother Jim who died on the __Yorktown__ at Midway in 1942. _

_ I don't know whether Robin takes any comfort from this, but I certainly do. Robin, who was quite close to Jim, won't admit it, but he feels guilty for having survived the war. I know what that is. I survived the war, too, but Rhodri and Huw, with whom I grew up, didn't. Rhodri got shot before he even hit the beach, and Huw got killed by mortar fire. I should have been shot in September 1942. A Captain Gustav von Bock wrote a report detailing my activities and naming me a British spy. For whatever reason—Robin would probably call it dumb luck—the report was rejected at a higher level, and von Bock went to the Russian Front. I got lucky; they got killed. Is it ever fair?_

_6 June 1947_

_ I went to Mass for Rhodri, Huw, and Jim today. A requiem is not a gay affair to begin with, but it's made worse by head-spinning nausea and general fatigue. I've started going to bed earlier, approximately __9pm__, but I guess I'm going to have go earlier. Not that that's appealing, for there's no charm in a bed devoid of Robin._

_ I sent a packet of things to him today. Several letters and a couple of newspaper articles, plus the book he wanted. I put the pressed rose in the middle. It was a beauty—a heavy-scented, old-fashioned red rose, with a myriad of petals. It's an old Victorian variety that I've always loved. _

_ Of course, I wrote him, telling him what I can about work, how it is upsetting me, how I miss him. But I did not and am not going to inform that I'm with child again. That would get his hopes up; this'll be the third time for him. And it's torn him up so the other two times I've missed. My darling wants children; he had no idea what he was giving up when he married me. I won't torture him, particularly now that he's in the States, with this news, which will only have to be followed up with the notice of loss. He'd be alone and grieving. Dammit! I do wish it could be different._

_13 June 1947_

_ Another heavy mail call, including one from Robin and one from Angharad. I always smile when I start reading a letter from Robin; he always opens with 'my darling girl'. My dear husband is completely fed up with his superiors. They won't listen to him, and so he's feeling very frustrated. I never enjoyed being patted on the head like a good little girl by the upper ranks. Robin has even less patience for that. Unfortunately, in his case, youth is not an advantage. To top it all off, he's got a summer cold. Probably due to climate change. Every time I go to __Wales__ now, after being away so long, I get an instant head cold. So far, Robin's is only making him tetchy and uncomfortable. And he's not getting the rest he should! I'll make sure to send him some Swiss mint for a tisane; it always makes him feel better._

_ Well, there's nothing to make Angharad feel better. Rhys is very ill. In fact, if I read correctly between the lines, he's dying. When Angharad becomes afraid, she gets very stiff, very formal, even with me, her sister. It's such a shame, because Rhys deserved better out of this life. Of course, so did Rhodri, Huw, and Jim. But Rhys! The gentle schoolmaster! His family adores him, his students appreciate him, and this silly ailment is going to rob him of his life. To use Robin's phrase, Angharad is going to be a basket case. And she'll be of absolutely no use to the boys, Owain and Dai. I shouldn't think of them as boys. Owain carried the King's Commission in the war, and Dai is doing his national service now. I'll say a novena for them all._

_ And on a related note, I've hit the 2 month mark. The little bugger'll take French leave when I can least afford it. I wish to God Robin were here to hold me._

_17 June 1947_

_ The fatigue has become worse. As I was reading the endless Gestapo records—tracking down Nazis is so thrilling—I fell asleep at my desk. Falling asleep on duty is unacceptable. Fortunately, only my assistant caught me. I have to be in bed by __7pm__ now. It has never been this bad before. The first time I barely knew I was with child, and the miscarriage in June 1945 was just a disappointment. The second time around I was ill—nausea, soreness, fatigue—but nothing like this, nothing incapacitating. That loss in August 1946 hurt much more because I was in __Connecticut__ at the time. I got to demonstrate my inadequacies in front of my mother-in-law. I didn't think she was terribly sympathetic, but I may be overly hostile because she's had 5 children, while I can't seem to have one! Maggie, God bless her, was very consoling, both to me and Robin. All the other factors vis-à-vis my mother-in-law came into play as well. It was an awful experience for Robin._

_ One of the major irritations I have right now is that my time in the garden is curtailed. I love being among the plants. There is something about it that is calming, soothing, even comforting. The roses are going to be spectacular, but if I don't get in there, the weeds are going to be riotous. With all the lovely rain we've had, they're running amok._

_21 June 1947_

_ I've written another letter to my husband. And no, I've not written about the baby. It does trouble me to keep it from him, but really, all he'd do is worry. Keeping secrets from him when I don't really have to irks me. I've got enough to hide without adding to it. Actually, I didn't have much to say except the work still bothers me and the garden is choked with weeds. I've not been to cinema, or a dance, in weeks—I don't go without him. In the case of cinema, there's been nothing of any real interest anyway. Naturally, I didn't tell him that being asleep by __7pm__ precludes going anywhere. I will have to summon up enough energy to be at Swanie's farewell bash next week. Oh, I did tell him that I've had to purchase a new radio. The Beeb just wasn't coming in, and I simply cannot miss my serials. Or the World Service. Or the classical music. Not to mention, cricket, football, and rugby. And I did remember to include the Swiss mint for a tisane. He'll probably be over his cold by the time it gets there, though._

_ Every time I write to Robin, or read his letters, I think about the crumbling relations with the __Soviet Union__. The only thing we had in common was a hatred of Hitler. Now, all our mutual suspicions are coming to the fore. I try to push this out of my mind because the consequences of this falling out could be quite disastrous. Please God, not again! I've lied, stolen, and killed quite enough for one lifetime. All I want is a little peace._

_ I also think about how much I want this baby—smile like Robin's, skin like mine, bubbly personality. OH STOP IT, MIRIAM!!! Fantasies will only make it harder to cope later on!_

_24 June 1947_

_ Well, the comic relief came today. I got a letter from Signor Buonacelli, and the man is still madly in love with me. Donna Maria, mia cara, he calls me. There are two things the man just does not understand. One: I hate being called Mary or Maria. It may be what my name means in Hebrew, but I am Miriam, not Mary. Two: I am a very married woman, very much in love with my husband._

_ Beyond that, the rest is so very amusing. I met Signor Buonacelli when Robin and I went to __Rome__ in February 1945 to relieve the British Ambassador of certain items and information, who in this case was acting as a conduit for American information. At the time, I found it very strange that the __United States__ does not have diplomatic relations with the __Vatican__. According to Robin, the __US__ has never recognized the __Vatican__. It's apparently predicated on anti-Catholic hostility and fear of ultramontanism. Very peculiar country my husband hails from. Anyway, we met Signor Buonacelli in __Rome__. He was delighted to see Robin, but then the poor man laid eyes on me, and he was gone. I found his fulsome flattery and exuberant courtship an absolute riot—sweet but meaningless. I certainly didn't take it seriously at the time or now: I have eyes only for Robin. However, Robin's tolerance quickly evaporated, and at one point, he threatened Buonacelli with a swim in the __Tiber__. At that point, getting out of __Rome__ was the expedient thing to do._

_ It wasn't precisely jealousy. I think it was more anger at having his plans for a short honeymoon with his bride completely upset. We completed our mission, though not without danger, sooner than anticipated. We had 48 hours of essentially R & R, and Robin wanted to take advantage of that, but Signor Buonacelli was not to be shed. Looking back now on it, I understand Robin's anger._

_ All right, I've giggled through another overwrought Italian missive. Time to consign it to the flames—literally. I never reply. One would think that silence might make an impression._

_27 June 1947_

_ Everybody wants to talk to Robin! His correspondence has become rather overwhelming. Much more than I can handle right now with everything on my plate. I'm just going to have to sift through it all tomorrow._

_ One letter of note caught my eye. Sgt. Kinchloe wrote, saying he was going up to university to read electrical engineering. He wants to know if Robin could write a letter of recommendation for him. Time is of the essence here, since apparently this is all being done behind the scenes. I think it is a wonderful idea. I support the good sergeant to the fullest. He was the steadiest and most reliable of Robin's men. Also, he mentions Princess Yawanda. It failed to work out. I'm not surprised, given what Robin told me of the lady. Sgt. Kinchloe deserves far better. Anyway, I'll telegraph Robin the specific details and then send the letter with my next letter._

_1 July 1947_

_ Even as I write this, my pen shakes. I've started reading the reports I wrote as Elena Schmidl. My God!! what a good little Nazi Gestapo officer I appeared to be. The cold-blooded ruthlessness with which I carried out my duties as Schmidl must have been what kept me in place. Poor von Bock. I was a better actress than he was a true believer. I read these reports now and ask myself how did I do it? It was so long ago. I remember being both scared and exhilarated by infiltrating the Nazi war machine. It seemed, at the time, like Miri's own private war. Maybe I was still working off anger from my disastrous first marriage, redirecting it toward the war effort; maybe it was nationalist-born hatred for the enemy. Maybe it was some combination of the above, plus things I'm unaware of. But whatever it was, it's gone now. Something died the night Haggis did. Meeting Elena again makes realize I was righter than I knew when I said I couldn't do this anymore. I wonder if my superiors understood that better than I did—and that's why I've been reading records since war's end. It's not just a message to get out and take care of my husband like I ought to, though some of that's definitely there. It's a message that I've given all I can to the service._

_ But what do retired agents do? Write spy novels like Fleming? I giggle every time I think about Ian and his fantasies._

_4 July 1947_

_ American Independence Day. Not exactly a day of celebration for me. All my neighbors, however, are indulging themselves in picnics and fireworks. Just wait till I celebrate the King's birthday._

_ And speaking of the Empire, Robin got a letter from Peter Newkirk. Actually, it was addressed to both of us. London is still bleak, rationing is still in force, and nothing seems to be picking up. There are problems, particularly with the currency and the Government's admission of inability to keep up commitments abroad—this last is old news, for we knew that back in March. __India__ will be partitioned next month. I'd like to know how Newkirk comes by this intelligence—he must know somebody in the __India__ Office who can't keep quiet. Newkirk says he's trying to open a pub, but the going is rough because the banks are unwilling to assist him. I just imagine the impression he makes in Barclay's. He's looking for a partner right now. If all things go well, we'll have to have a pint on the house to celebrate. I'm delighted that Newkirk's going to give it a go, but he'll need a partner with real income._

_ Virginia Woolf thought it necessary for a woman to have £500 per annum and a room of her own. I dare say she'd have been shocked at £1500 per annum. I'll call my solicitors in __London__ who'll contact Newkirk. This will be an anonymous, silent partner arrangement. Not only must Newkirk not know, but Robin must absolutely never know. I may have inherited the bulk of Tom's estate, and even after death duties, it was considerable, but I am Robin's wife. He supports me. I do not him on challenge this._

_7 July, 1947_

_ The solicitors assure me that Peter Newkirk is not a good investment. I sweetly informed them that they could either draw up the necessary papers or they could lose a client. Make your choice, gentlemen. I'm sure they'll grumble about an idiot female with too much money, but they'll do my bidding. I'm a good source of fat fees._

_ Robin's latest missive arrived today. He got the mint, but as I suspected, the cold had already passed by the time it got there. Apparently, though, the mint tisane is good cold, something very necessary now in __Washington__. Robin is complaining about the heat. I hate to tell him that the Foreign Office classifies duty in __Washington__ in the summer as tropical service. But the heat is only one problem. The ideology of anti-communism and containment has taken hold in foreign policy and the War Department. I sense my husband shaking his head over it. Will the eastern European countries take part in the Marshall Plan? If not—I don't see it happening—then a divided __Europe__ and a divided __Germany__ seem likelier than ever. If it keeps the peace, I'll live with it, but God forbid it should start the next war. _

_12 July 1947_

_ I got a telephone call at __4am__ from __Wales__. It was a distraught Angharad—Rhys died last night. Damn and blast! I am in shock right now. Drained, too. I promised Angharad I'd be in Caernarfon as soon as possible. I'm leaving tomorrow._

_ Today, I have to pack for a fortnight in __Wales__. Officially take leave from work and leave explicitly detailed instructions on Wolfgang Hochstetter, as if they can catch the blighter. Wolfgang is running an escape conduit for Nazis to __Argentina__. It's extensive, and part of me giggles because it rather resembles what Robin used to do. I doubt my husband would be so appreciative of the irony. And the whole problem will still be waiting for me when I get back from __Wales__. I have to telegraph Robin with the news and Angharad's address and exchange._

_13 July, 1947_

_ Got a cable late last night from Robin. He sends his condolences and all his love. Wishes he could be there with me in __Wales__. God how do I wish he were here now. I've been crying—for Rhys, Angharad, their sons, but also for myself. I will miss Rhys and his silly wordgames, his gentle smile, his sharp intelligence. Last night was so cold in grief, and Robin not here to comfort me._

_ I rang Angharad back yesterday and let her know I was leaving today for __Wales__. I should, with luck, make Caernarfon by Wednesday. That's good, she said, Requiem Mass is Thursday. I'm supposed to pick up Dai in __London__. Will I even recognize my nephew—19 and in the Royal Army. A trooper not an officer._

_ And even as I feel struck to the bone by Rhys' death—Bloody hell! He was only 51!—I am reminded that I am now three months gone with child. I've never carried a baby this long before. Do I have reason to hope? Even in the midst of death there is life?_

_15 July 1947_

_ Met Dai in __Waterloo__ Station. Ah, he's filled out some since joining the Army. It has to be from the exercise, not the food. I've never met an Army canteen that served anything but swill._

_ Dai almost didn't recognize me. I still keep my hair black. Only when I was Elena Schmidl did I let it run to my natural premature grey. I prefer to look 30, not 40. It's vanity, but it's also a way to tease Robin, who's begun to silver at the temples. Those'll be fine, distinguished silver wings soon enough, but I like to make it seem as if he robbed the cradle. He's rarely amused by this attitude._

_ And Dai says my accent in English has gone funny, more American. I suppose it has. My husband is an American. But my Welsh accent is still pure Caernarfon—as I proved when I blistered his ears in Welsh. I suppose teasing me is one way of dodging the sadness of his da's death. Dai did want to know where his uncle was and was displeased that he'd not come._

_ I found out my nephew Owain is marrying in January. It hardly seems possible, but it's true. Owain'll be 24 early next spring, so he's old enough. Is he wise enough? I've not seen Owain since early 1944. And let's face it, being in the service, being married to Robin means I've gone far further than most of my family, except for two uncles who went out to __India__. Time and distance separate me from my family._

_ Speaking of family, I'm not going to tell them I'm expecting. It's just not right, not right now. Also, I don't want to spoil it. It's still not real, though I've made an appointment to see Dick Reynolds Monday next. He's in practice in __London__. He'll tell me what to do next._

_July 18, 1947_

_Rhys' Requiem was yesterday. I'm done in—emotionally, physically, spiritually. Angharad is inconsolate. Worse and more stunning, to me, is how old she looks! She looks well beyond her 44 years—more my mother than my sister! While suffering themselves, Dai and Owain have been very supportive of their mother. And the family have been very helpful and will continue to be._

_I seem the odd woman out. There are family members I don't know—mostly new wives and small children. For them and for me, we are total strangers who greet each other with cordial politeness. But my other cousins seem a little perplexed by me, and I by them. I don't know if it is because of all my emotional turmoil in combination with excessive tiredness. I almost fainted Wednesday evening; fortunately, Dai was there to catch me. I am sure the family thinks I am ill and trying to keep it a secret from everybody, especially Angharad. So they're not quite sure how to behave. Oh, bother! I don't trust anything I feel right now. It's all such a bloody muddle._

_This much is true: I have been gone a long time. And I have married out. Owain had best think about this. His fiancée Barbara, a very nice girl, is Canadian from __Toronto__. They are planning to live in Caernarfon. Will she be happy here? She doesn't even speak Welsh, and that's not going to go over well with the family. Robin can't wrap his tongue around it, much to everyone's general annoyance. Suppose they end up having to move to __England__? Or worse, __Canada__? Are they ready for any of this? Actually, I should ask myself the same question. Am I ready to move to the States when Robin gets posted back there? I'll go with him, but it will take me very far away from home._

_My nephews are not pleased that Robin's not here. I, too, wish he were here. For entirely different reasons._

_21 July 1947_

_ I saw Dick Reynolds today. He's looking very well indeed, and is the same tetchy Scot he's always been. He has lost more hair, and he's less than enthusiastic about the National Health Service. Ah, the Tory emerges! I love arguing politics with him. I'm such the vociferous Labourite. It was such a pleasure to vote for Atlee. Churchill made a great war PM, but I wouldn't have trusted him to be mediocre domestic PM. Too much the Tory for that. Labour's committed to truly making this a land fit for heroes. And of course, the Home Secretary is Welsh, Aneurin Bevan. _

_ Dick confirmed that I'm with child and scolded me severely for not seeing a doctor sooner. I told him there was no point. I knew almost as much as any doctor about miscarriage. Dick called me bloody daft and told me the chances were excellent that I'd have this baby. Didn't I think it would be a good idea to tell my husband? I find it uncanny the way Dick reads my mind; it unnerves me. Robin can't even do this. Dick also asked if I thought it would be a good idea to resign from the service. He's right about that, too, but I hesitate. What if I bet wrong?_

_ I've been put on a strict regime of medical supervision, but I want British medical attention, not American. The Americans are so coldly scientific; they treat being with child the same as they do pneumonia. British midwives and doctors have always been much more sympathetic about it all, especially loss of a child. I didn't break my leg in August of 46. Dick agreed with me and promised to help me find someone I liked. But under no circumstances was I to travel every month from __Germany__ to __England__ to see him. That would be far too fatiguing, uncomfortable, and impractical._

_ The head-spinning nausea and fatigue are good signs, according to Dick, who assures me that they should—should mind you!—go away in the next month. They can't go away soon enough for me. I hate sitting in my chair, feeling as if I were in a boat in choppy water. And he tells me that I should feel the child's movements sometime between my fourth and fifth month. The quickening. This is all news to me since I've never got this far before. My waist has already started to thicken, and so wardrobe changes are in order. Great, shopping for ugly clothes to mask the results of the fact my husband and I enjoy each other._

_26 July 1947_

_ Well, I'm leaving for __Germany__ this evening. I don't really want to leave Angharad who seems to move through her days as if in a trance. Dai is going to be here a fortnight yet, and I think Owain's permanently in Caernarfon now. My sister and I have not spoken much in this time, but what we have said shows a gulf of experience. She's a very unhappy widow. There's no way to heal her loss; Time will only numb. I, on the other hand, was a very happy widow. In fact, I kissed the messenger who told me Tom had been killed. I yelled "Hallelujah! The bastard's dead!" I'm sure that made a great impression. But it doesn't give much to go on with Angharad. I love my sister, and I feel guilty for leaving her in the lurch, but I doubt seriously I can do much for her._

_ I don't look forward to everything that's piled up since I've been gone. I still have to settle accounts with the service. I've thought about it over the last couple of days here in Caernarfon, and I realize that I am actually happy to leave the service. My heart wasn't in it anymore. Reading my alter ego made me realize what it cost to do what I did. I can't find it do it anymore._

_ I should ring or telegraph Robin in the States about the baby. But I can't. As irrational as it is, I don't want to jinx it. I'm going to wait to tell him. Also, I want to see his face when I tell him that this time it's for real. Though I'm not certain I believe that yet. That maybe what's holding me back. On the other hand, he's likely to be very upset with me for not telling him. Ah, well, I'll just have to cope, now won't I?_

_27 July 1947_

_ I had an unexpected overnight delay in __Paris__. Mechanical failure. It gave me the opportunity to see if I could find Louis LeBeau's café. I can't believe he called it Chez Lui. Couldn't he have come up with something better? I did find it; it's in __Montmartre__. It seems a thriving establishment. He's catering, too, and making a real name for himself. He told me he's doing Carter's wedding in September—to make sure the guests don't starve or suffer food poisoning. Louis doesn't trust the happy couple to do it right._

_ Looking very pleased with himself—a French Cheshire cat—he asked about 'mon colonel', and I reminded him it was 'mon général' now. I filled him in what's been going on since war's end. He watched me very carefully through out our conversation, and then asked me quietly, if I were well. I didn't seem myself, rather deflated. I had to confess that I was coming back from my brother-in-law's funeral. Also, the travelling was taking its toll, too. Louis said he'd light a candle for my family. I was touched. And then God decided to make a liar out of me. I went to leave, thanking for him for his hospitality and promptly fainted. The world went black. I couldn't have been out for more than a couple of minutes—probably lack of food, since I stupidly forgot to eat, though with my head still spinning around, how could I? Louis' face was white. I'm sure he had nightmares in those couple of minutes of trying to explain to Robin how I dropped in his café. Fortunately, it didn't come to that, and I managed to restrain him from sending for a doctor. I had to tell him that I am enceinte. He was so pleased for Robin and me, said we'll make wonderful parents. A cold shiver went down my spine at that point. What kind of mum will I be? The enormity of it all is beginning to hit. I think I may be swamped. Louis then proceeded to be something of a nursemaid. God, how I dislike that! I can barely tolerate it from Robin. But I couldn't hurt Louis' feelings, and I know he was doing it as much for Robin as for me. Tolerance, old girl, that's the ticket._

_30 July 1947_

_ I just out from under all the correspondence that had accumulated over a fortnight's absence, and now, here comes yet another deluge. I can't wait for Robin to get back. I've got other things to do besides answer his mail._

_ The garden is on the verge of being a jungle. The weeds are taking over. They're choking out the smaller flowers, like the geraniums, periwinkles, and marigolds. The roses haven't been properly seen to, and they're now frowzy. The climbers need new lattices, and the rain has very nearly ruined the vegetables I had going. At least, the rosemary is thriving._

_ And I've resigned from the service, but it won't take effect until August 15. In the meantime, I have to wind up the Hochstetter affair—which took me the better part of 2 months to piece together. With all the pieces in the puzzle together and given my knowledge of Wolfgang, I should be able to trap him inside a week. However, somebody else can execute the plan. I just wish this were all behind me now; I'm impatient for my freedom. Robin would call it short-timer's fever._

_ And speaking of Robin, he sent me George Kennan's article on containment. Theoretical politics. As much as I wanted to throw it aside—I'm no ideologue—Robin's point that people at the strategic level are accepting this professor's argument made me read it. It strikes me as being very abstract. Do politicians ever think that way? I'm not sure. There are things they believe in—look at the Beveridge Report—but these tend to be concrete things, not abstract concepts. Anyway, Robin said he is leaving for __Connecticut__ 1 August for Maggie's wedding which is on the 4th. That's Monday. Robin says he really likes her bridegroom; Harry's a good guy. Of course, my husband may be prejudiced since they are both pilots. Going to __Connecticut__ means he won't be home until August 15. He'll get in late, too, meaning he'll be a perfect crab, and I'll probably be sound asleep. What a welcome home!_

_4 August 1947_

_ Well, Maggie got married today. It was to be an afternoon wedding. I hope it was lovely. Maybe the crystal vase I sent from __London__ will get there soon. It's from both me and Robin. My husband forgets things like this. Hell, he's forgotten my birthday, so I'd like to ensure a proper wedding gift from us both._

_ In a couple of senses, I'm glad I'm not there. I couldn't have faced a wedding so soon after Rhys' funeral. And I'd've been so tempted to let the entire Hogan clan know that at last I am with child. Such spite is totally out of place at a wedding. It's Maggie's day in whole._

_8 August 1947_

_ Wolfgang was captured today. I got the thrilling task of interrogating him, and in complete contrast to my expectations, he recognized me—as Elena Schmidl. He wasn't too sure which side I worked for, but I left him no doubts. I am the King's good servant. But I treated him to an Elena Schmidl interrogation which broke him in 3 hours. _

_ Much more than that and I'd've broken. While I'd found my old anger, based as much on hatred of Nazism as on hatred of the enemy in general, I cannot sustain it. It's too corrosive, too destructive. But what I cannot fathom is how Wolfgang doesn't understand what he did was wrong. As I recorded all the information pouring out of him—it will all have to be corroborated, but that's not my problem—I found myself limp from the effort of listening. Forget the interrogation. How twisted Wolfgang must be NOT to recognize the evil of what he did. I sought to subvert it from within without believing anything except it needed to be defeated, and it nearly defeated me. I'm glad I never have to do this again. It's more than I can do._

_ But I leave the service in a blaze of glory. Wolfgang's capture and interrogation is quite the feather in my cap. Knowing that he'll stand in the dock for his crimes, with the probable outcome a substantial stretch in prison, or possibly even execution, personally reassures me. Evil will be called to account. Elena Schmidl can rest in peace, mission accomplished._

_13 August 1947_

_ I saw my doctor today. According to him, I'm doing fine, and everything is progressing normally. Dr. Brett is a bit of a scatterbrain, but at least he's English. He's not behaving as if I had a disease to be treated. I've got a regime to follow to ensure proper nutrition for me and the baby, but above all, I'm to relax and enjoy being with child._

_ I really am going to have to get maternity clothes. I've been putting it off; I've been letting things out over the past month, but I can't do that anymore. I can't button any of my skirts now, and only 2 dresses will accommodate my bosom and my tummy. They're all too tailored for that. I look pleasantly plump, but I find my tummy quite noticeable. I wonder what Robin will notice when he gets home? Maternity clothes are so awful! So ugly! Shapeless smocks, drab skirts, rotten colors, and miserable fabrics. Some of this is vanity, but what's wrong with a little fashion? I am not a cow. I may simply start with larger-waisted trousers and a couple of Robin's old shirts. That should work fine for awhile and certainly around the house. I suppose though I will simply become too big for anything but those hideous smocks. Whoever heard of Peter Pan collars on expectant mothers?_

_16 August 1947_

_ Robin got home late last night. I'd tried to stay up but gave up around __9pm__. I must have been deeply asleep because I didn't even feel him get in bed. I woke up in the night with him curled up against me, his arm across my tummy. I luxuriated in his embrace. I thought about kissing him awake, but he was so peaceful-looking, so angelic I couldn't bring myself to disturb him. _

_ I have to say my husband doesn't miss a thing. At breakfast this morning, as I was about to drink my orange juice, he lit into me: "And just when do you plan on telling me about the baby?" It's nice to know that he notices, but I resented being called on the mat. I politely informed him that yes, I am with child, and I waited because I wanted to tell him to his face. After about 10 minutes of huffiness, he settled down. Once I told him how far along I was and what Dick and Dr. Brett had said—Robin was pleased I'd seen Dick—he got that funny look on his face that men apparently always get when confronted with the fact their wives are expecting. It seems as if they don't understand how it happened. But I can tell he's pleased to finally be Daddy._

_ Of course, now having told Robin of his impending fatherhood, I feel overwhelmed. There is so much to do! So much to think about! I almost want to go screaming into a closet, but I'll muddle through. After all, I've done harder, less rewarding things in my time. This'll be grand. And I'll have Robin through it all._

**London****, England****: November 1956**

Slamming the diary shut, Hogan looked up. Miri had been so pleased to be with child, and to him, she had never been more beautiful than when she had been carrying Patrick. In his wallet, he still had a photo of her 6 ½ months gone. She'd been blissfully unaware of him, and he'd been able to snap a picture of her sitting there in her garden, both holding and stroking her burgeoning belly

And the day Patrick was born! Even 18 hours of labor had not been able to diminish her enthusiasm and joy. Dr. Brett had let him in for a brief visit. Beaming brighter than a bomber's moon, she'd been so proud to present Patrick to him. It had taken him over an hour to coo, soothe, and caress the brand-new mum into the sleep she'd needed. It was the cruelest joke not to let her rear Patrick to adulthood.

He couldn't bring himself to read anymore. Her voice had rung in his ears as he'd read, and he couldn't bear it. His absence from her in the diary reflected in miniature her absence from him. He'd come back to her, and she never would to him. The permanence of the loss overwhelmed him. Bowing his head, he finally let go of his suppressed grief. The tears flowed.

Oblivious to the passage of time as he wept, Hogan returned to reality at the light pressure of two thin arms reaching partially around him. Patrick pressed his forehead against his father's temple and whispered simply, "You miss Mummy, don't you?"

Choking back fresh tears, he managed to respond, "Yes, Patrick, I do." He clasped his son's hand in his own. For a several minutes, father and son remained locked in their embrace. Hogan finally broke the spell. Wiping away his tears, he faced his son and kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you, Sport, but you need to be in bed." He guided the boy back to his room, tucking him up.

As Patrick snuggled under the duvet, he asked, "Daddy?" Lustrous, large, and nearly black eyes gazed upwards. His mother's eyes.

"Yes," responded Hogan, who hoped his son wasn't going to ask more questions about death and dying. He couldn't take it right now.

"Do you think Mummy's happy in Heaven?"

Hogan responded truthfully. "No, I don't. She'd much rather be here, with us, than there." He reached out and tousled his son's silky hair, so like Miri's. "Now, go back to sleep. You've got school tomorrow, and Sister Michael will not appreciate me for keeping you up." Patrick gave his father a quick smile before flinging himself on his stomach. Hogan turned out the light, and after a few minutes, left his sleeping son to his dreams.

Marching resolutely into his own bedroom, Hogan turned his side of the four-poster down then changed into his pyjamas. He walked over to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and stared out into the night. In the light from the street lamp, Hogan watched several of the last leaves of autumn drift to the ground. The trees were mostly bare, and it would only be a matter of time before they'd see icy rain and sleet. Hogan muttered as he let the drapes fall back, "I will always miss you, my darling girl."


End file.
